


It Started With Enchiladas

by Eireann



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 13:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1268122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eireann/pseuds/Eireann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-ep to 'Silent Enemy'.  If Hoshi had been a little more tactful or Malcolm a little less preoccupied, things might have turned out very differently.  As it was...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MizJoely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/gifts).



> Disclaimer: Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended, no profit made.
> 
> Author's Note: Warning. There's not much plot. Come to think of it, there isn't really any plot. I just had fun with this one. It has not been beta'd, so any mistakes are my own.
> 
> I'm not sure Malcolm is always the goody-goody he's made out to be, and this is the result.
> 
> Read at your own risk - you have been warned!

‘I didn’t mean to imply anything other than making dinner, Lieutenant.’

Lieutenant Malcolm Reed sits alone in his silent quarters, contemplating those words.

At the time, he’d been too preoccupied to give them any serious notice, other than to be relieved that a potentially awkward situation had been avoided – even at the cost of some embarrassment to himself.  If he’d been less absorbed with charting the progress of the installation of those two new phase cannons, he’d probably have saved himself even that; after all, he isn’t inexperienced in reading the signs of female interest, and up till now Hoshi has never shown any sign of attraction to him.  So he’d have been properly sceptical at the possibility that she was ‘coming on to him’, and would have taken more time to find out what she was really after.

Whether he’d have got around to the truth that she was setting him up for a birthday surprise – well, probably not.  There had never been much of ‘that kind of nonsense’ in the Reed household to start with, and certainly his father had never seemed to think his arrival and continued existence in the world had been anything much to celebrate.  He’s got used to his birthday just being another day in the year, and now aboard _Enterprise_ he’d expected that state of affairs to continue – insofar as he’d thought about it at all.  Birthdays were frivolous things that other people made a fuss about.  His own was a subject that would be kept firmly off the conversational menu.

But for all his resolve, Captain Archer had apparently thought differently.  While the armoury and engineering sections of his ship were beavering away, united unbeknown to him in their determination to have the new phase cannons in place before the ship returned to Jupiter Station, he’d set Hoshi the unenviable task of discovering his tactical officer’s favourite food.  So much he let slip, while they were all laughing in the weary triumph of two tasks well done.

“Well, that can’t have been easy.”  Malcolm murmurs it aloud, his tone a little admiring.  He admires achievement in any form, and he knows how much care he’s taken to be both unpredictable and unobtrusive.  They were natural traits of his that the Section found useful, and fostered.  As for contacting his parents – he wishes he’d been a fly on the wall when the Captain tackled Reed Senior on the subject of a birthday celebration.  It’d be a miracle if the event hadn’t been followed up by a strongly-worded letter to Starfleet on the subject of wasting valuable resources, and you can bet any money that at the next back-scratching party with his old Navy pals, ex-Commander Reed will hold forth on those Yanks who have no damned respect for rank.  A bloody Captain wasting his valuable time trying to find out about a subordinate’s favourite food – always said that Starfleet was just a parcel of damned nancy-boys....

Hoshi, though.  For all that she doesn’t have T’Pol’s stunning attributes, she’s very pretty.  (A fact that hasn’t escaped him during the long hours on the Bridge, when her station is almost opposite his, and it’s far safer to let his gaze rest on her in the occasional idle moment than on the science officer, who is far more likely to look up unexpectedly and catch him.)  And yes, she’s always been friendly enough, insofar as is possible while the proper relationship between ranks is preserved; though she gets on best of all with Travis, which is hardly surprising and, considering they’re both ensigns, not contrary to regulations as long as their conduct remains correct and professional.  She flirts occasionally with Commander Tucker, who is apparently considered the ship’s resident pin-up (the Section dispelled his reticence about eavesdropping long ago), but there is little indication that either of them takes this seriously.  As evidenced by the commander’s recent mishap with the Xyrillians, he is inveterately susceptible to female charms, but prides himself on being a ‘Southern gentleman’.  The chances of his becoming improperly involved with the ship’s comm officer are remote.

_I, on the other hand..._

It’s unlikely that anyone on the ship has a better acquaintance than he with the regulations.  (Well, maybe T’Pol, but she’s a Vulcan.)  A relationship between a lieutenant and an ensign would be frowned on, even if she wasn’t under him in the chain of command .... though the thought of Hoshi being ‘under him’ in quite different circumstances brings his half-smile flickering across his mouth, and the lids half close over his grey eyes, veiling them.

No, a ‘relationship’ would be quite out of the question.  But then, his powers of persuasion have been challenged.  And ‘a relationship’ isn’t quite the victory he has in mind.

Malcolm pours himself a measure of well-earned single malt whisky and sips it slowly, considering.


	2. Chapter 2

Hoshi looks around the Mess Hall somewhat tentatively.

It isn’t that she has any intention of walking out if he’s there ... why should she?  It was an honest mistake, and in a few days she’ll be able to look back at it and laugh.  It was something and nothing, a misunderstanding, and, well, it was a bit insulting that he’d looked so horrified by the idea, but she’d certainly slapped him down hard enough.  A bit _too_ hard, in retrospect, considering they’ve all got to work together for the next five years; and it’s not his fault he’s socially inept.  He probably hasn’t had that much experience.  He’s always come across as painfully shy – probably the reason why he keeps those barriers up. 

But he isn’t there, so her vague anxiety evaporates.  Travis waves her over, and she collects her meal and goes to join him at the table.  Over the course of the meal she wonders whether she should mention the incident to him, but eventually decides not to.  He’d find it hilarious of course, but he might be too tempted to pass it on, and she’s quite sure that the ship’s head of security is aware of the existence of the rumor mill.  Finding himself the subject of the latest gossip would not go down well, and it’s too easy to imagine that gray gaze becoming unpleasantly cold.  Secretly she loves listening to his accent – she’s not as versed in the English dialects as in the American ones of course, but she knows enough to place him east of the middle of England.  Nevertheless she’s no desire to hear for herself how hard-edged that accent can become, or how cutting the tongue that shapes it.

Still, Travis has enough to say on his own account, and soon he has her laughing.  Now if it was Travis she’d offered to make enchiladas for ... not that she’s thought of it, but if she ever did, _then_ there might be something else on the menu for dessert.  She’s seen him in the gym, and that ubiquitous Starfleet coverall does a good job of hiding musculature that’s striking when less effectively covered.  In the meantime, though, they’re just good friends, and she feels comfortable in his company.  And he has so many stories, which he tells with a combination of a straight face and an irresistible twinkle, so that she never knows when to believe him.  It comes of being born a Boomer, he says.  There’s a lot of time to kill on the long hauls.

They’re half way through dinner when the Mess doors open.  She’s annoyed with herself for looking, even so casually, because what does it matter who comes in?  Travis is in the middle of this hilarious story of the time Paul tied their cousin Matthew’s boot-laces together when he fell asleep in the transit lounge waiting for the _Horizon_ ’s cargo manifest to be issued, and she’s laughing already, anticipating the ending, when suddenly the pneumatic hiss of the door alerts her.

Maybe she’s been subconsciously listening all along, comparing the sound of the booted feet that go to and fro along the corridor.  With hearing like hers it’s not impossible that she’s already identified his tread, among others, and filed it away as just another piece of information – one of the millions that the supercomputer of the human brain silently acquires, assesses and processes while the conscious mind is occupied with the sensory stream of daily life.  After all, a few other people have come in and gone out, and none of them has triggered that guilty, reflex glance; and she already knows, even before her supercomputer has analysed the visual data fed in by the superlatively efficient ocular processors attached to it, that this is her designated target.

Her first sensation is relief.  He’s been in the gym, that much is clear: his colour’s higher than normal, and his hair’s still damp from the shower.  And Trip is with him.  For some unknown reason, the commander has evidently decided that the two of them are going to be buddies.  So far, the lieutenant has seemed resistant to Trip’s overtures of friendship, but they work together amicably enough, according to Anna Hess anyway; and _running water will wear away a stone_ , as the old saying has it, so perhaps Malcolm’s resistance is starting to get worn away.  For whatever reason, they enter the Mess side by side, and don’t even glance around to see who else is present.

Trip is laughing, presumably at something Malcolm said just before they came in.  Although it’s rarely heard, the Brit has a subtle, razor-sharp wit.  It doesn’t take too much imagination to feel there’s the possibility of a real partnership there, perhaps founded on the fact that they’re polar opposites: dark and fair, outgoing and introverted, ebullient and reserved, sociable and shy.

Straight and ....? She finds herself wondering.  Trip’s letters from Natalie are evidence on his side, but Malcolm receives no letters from home.  He’s a dark moon to Trip’s blond sun, eclipsed and overshadowed, secretive and cool.  His Academy friend Mark Latrelle said he’d had a thing for a waitress called Maureen in a restaurant in the Embarcadero, but it’s hard to imagine Malcolm being that young, that obvious.

Nevertheless, the contrast now between the relaxed man who walks towards the serving cabinets and the stiff, formal officer on the Bridge is startling.  He hasn’t made much attempt to dry his hair and none to styling it.  It’s rumpled and damp, except where the end of each strand is starting to dry out, dark and soft.  He’s pulled on a dark gray shirt, but hasn’t bothered to fasten it properly or tuck all of it neatly into his waistband.  The occasional bead of moisture trickles out of his hair and runs down his bare chest, and Crewman Owens who turns around suddenly and finds him behind her almost drops her tray with the shock.  She pulls her gaze up from his chest to his face, and hers goes pale, then pink.  She steadies the tray and then hurries away to join her two fellow-crewmen from Astrometrics, and the other women lean towards her and listen to her whisper.

He ignores them.  He selects roast beef, with Yorkshire pudding and vegetables.

Trip has pasta.

They sit down at a table a short distance away.  Trip is still talking and gesticulating in between mouthfuls of food. 

Malcolm listens to him, nodding occasionally.  He eats quietly and precisely, as he does everything.  He carefully separates the cauliflower florets, sliding each one individually between his lips.  His eyes are the same color as the shirt, which is way too expensive to wear after you’ve come out of the shower, and the material drapes beautifully where it’s not clinging to his still-damp body.

And a very attractively sculpted body it is too, even if not in Travis’s class.

Hoshi pulls her attention back to her companion.  After all, Malcolm hasn’t even glanced in her direction.  Even if he’s remembered, he won’t be in any hurry to draw himself to her notice again for a while.  Not after that unfortunate exchange yesterday; maybe it’s coincidence that he wasn’t on the Bridge today, or maybe he was just keeping his head down, embarrassed, and grateful that the work on finishing up the installation gave him an excuse to lie low in the Armory for a while.

Yeah.  That sounds like a good theory.

In the corner, Crewman Owens and her friends are still whispering.  From time to time they look across at the table where Trip and Malcolm are sitting.

Trip has his back to them.  Malcolm, on the other hand, has taken the chair that puts them in his line of sight.  Not directly, but he can certainly watch them with his peripheral vision.

Almost until the end of his meal, he ignores them.

A long time ago, Hoshi went on safari.  The jeep had driven close to a pride of lions, and after seeing the pictures of these ferocious killing machines she’d been bitterly disappointed by the reality.  They’d been sprawled out among the dun-colored grasses in the shade of a baobab tree, motionless but for the flick of an ear or a tail to drive away the tormenting flies.  ‘King of Beasts’?  Hardly.  They were just lazy, tatty-looking heaps of fur, ignoring everything.  Who could be scared of such indolent-looking creatures as these?

Then, across the savannah, there had been a ruckus in the zebra herd.  An angry whickering, and the scatter of hooves.  In response, just one of the lions had lifted its head.  The closed eyes had opened.  For no reason at all, it had looked momentarily at the jeep.  The little girl in it had had the immediate and overwhelming impression that it was staring straight at her, and that in second she understood fully and viscerally why lions are dangerous.

In between whispers, Crewman Owens still glances from time to time at Malcolm.  For no reason at all, Hoshi hears in her mind the long-ago whickering of a zebra herd.

And then, just as he’s about to rise and follow Trip out again, Malcolm turns his head.  Hoshi can’t see his face, and he doesn’t speak, but Owens’ face goes pink again, and her two co-conspirators look on avidly.

The two men leave.  One side of the expensive gray shirt is tucked in, and the pants under it are tight.  So are the gluteal muscles underneath it, if the dark fabric tells no lies, and fabric is – in these matters – usually honest.

Informed female opinion has waxed lyrical about Trip’s rearward view.  Informed female opinion has presumably never gotten a good look at Malcolm’s, which is rather a sad loss for informed female opinion; but one which will be rectified fast enough, at a guess, for more than one head turns to admire as two perfectly formed male backsides disappear through the door.

“... and then Paul fell straight into the drinks dispenser!”  Travis is finishing his story, the last in the Prank War series.  His eyes are sparkling; he’s sure she’s as delighted with it as he is.

Hoshi laughs exactly on cue.

She’s hardly heard a word of it.


	3. Chapter 3

He doesn’t even know her first name, but she’ll be useful.  After Trip finally leaves, their work schedule for the next day finally arranged, Malcolm moves to the computer and pulls up the ship’s complement.  He recognised one of the women with her, and all three of them were from the Science Department, so that helps to narrow it down.

Owens, Julie.

She’s in no danger, she’s just a stalking horse.  Quite an attractive stalking horse, but he’s seen her in action before and feels no compunction; she won’t be broken.  A little bruised maybe, but easily healed.  Her chief attraction for him is her friends, with whom she’s so very confiding.  A clique like that is practically hotwired into the rumour mill, and he knows who else faithfully follows the gossip; every move he makes will be faithfully transmitted and picked up. 

Sometimes it bores him to tears being ‘Righteous Reed’.  No-one knows better than he where the lines are drawn, and he can balance on them like a tightrope-walker, daring the chasm below.  The little stinging insult of Hoshi’s rejection was irksome, but it’s fading already, and it’s more than that: he likes the challenge.  It isn’t that he wants her so desperately, though he has no doubt sex with her would be amazing, but he certainly wants to teach her a lesson.

_You’re playing with the big boys now..._

He opens the mail programme.

His reflection is dimly visible on the screen as he types.  It’s wearing a little, feral smile.

He doesn’t know what’s scheduled for next Movie Night.  Quite frankly, he doesn’t care either.  His concentration won’t be aimed at the screen, after all, and one thing he already knows about Trip Tucker is that his taste in films is execrable. 

There’s a couple of days yet – ample time for word to get round.  If he’s any judge of character, and working for the Section has honed that particular ability too, the word will be out on the grapevine almost before Owens has finished typing _I’d love to._

He presses ‘Send’.  Quickly, while he’s waiting, he checks the ship schedule, just in case she asks.  It’ll look suspicious if he doesn’t know.

No, he won’t care if he misses that.  On the other hand, it looks like something that might have suitable suggestions for any impressionable females who happen to be present.  Put them in a receptive mood, so to speak.  He’d have invited Hoshi instead, but he’s far too experienced to make that mistake.

Patience, my dear.  Patience.

The incoming message envelope flips onto the screen.

_I’d love to._

He laughs soundlessly.

_It’s a date._

Will Hoshi come to the Movie Night?  It’s possible.  He’s heard her discussing previous visits.  It’ll be only hours at most before she knows who else is going, and then she has the decision.  To go or not to go, that is the question; whether to suffer the slings and arrows of an overactive imagination, or to press on and be a first-hand witness.  At the moment, of course, it won’t be personal.  Just female curiosity.  After all, once Owens and her chums have finished uploading the news on to the grapevine, practically every female in the crew will have been apprised of the news that Reed the Icicle has actually asked someone on a _date._ And though he’s not nearly enough of an egoist to suppose that the novelty will affect attendances in any way, he’s prepared to bet that he and his ‘date’ will be objects of intense, if covert, interest among some of the other members of the audience.

To abstain, and get all the news second-hand?  To dignify the occasion with her presence and pretend she’s only there for the film?   

_Decisions, decisions._

He wonders which way she’ll jump.

There again, she might not even give a damn either way.  His sense of humour takes over at this point, and he grins at his reflection.  It’s a genuine grin this time, and one that very few people on _Enterprise_ have ever seen, because it’s not at all one befitting a Head of Security.  And in all honesty, he doesn’t often have reason to produce it anyway – not with the way Captain Archer seems to view his determination to err on the side of caution when it comes to protecting the ship’s personnel.

Then he switches the computer off and goes to lie down on his bed.  He has a hand-held games console, and a new game for it came down the data-stream only a couple of days ago.  Other people get letters; he gets war-games.  He’s already at level 38, and there are only 50, but his kill rate is phenomenal.  Last time he was on Earth a manufacturer e-mailed him, offering him a job as a consultant, but he declined it.  (Politely, of course.  A Reed is always polite.)

He’s enjoying himself far too much for that.


	4. Chapter 4

Movie Night.

He’s asked somebody on a _date?_

The topic is still under discussion, here in the Mess where it all started.  Familiarity has not dimmed its capacity to intrigue.

“It’s still on,” says Liz, her eyes sparkling with delight.  “I asked Julie, and she said he fixed a time to pick her up!”

“Damn, you think we ought to report it to Phlox?  He must be delirious!”  Anna chortles into her coffee.  “And what the hell was she doing saying ‘yes’?  She must be worse!”

“Definitely needs a check-up,” Hoshi agrees mechanically.  Liz and Anna weren’t in the Mess that night, and, linguist as she is, she rather doubts her ability to convey the sudden change in their normally aloof Tactical Officer. 

She’d never have thought so before, and certainly won’t admit to it now, but she doesn’t entirely lack sympathy with Julie Owens’ sudden urge to self-immolation.

Envy?

Oh, _please._

It’s been back to normal on the Bridge every day since then.  The carelessness is gone.  He’s been groomed, formal, correct.  The iciness of his demeanor has been like a daily cold front sweeping down from Alaska.

Pity help Julie if _that_ turns up at her cabin doorstep tonight, thinks Hoshi, suffocating an insane desire to giggle.  She’ll have a cardiac arrest on the spot.

She’d resisted an urge, seeing him arrive like that the next day, to turn on the internal microphones on F Deck.  The sighs of relief from the Armory that he wasn’t down there were probably audible two decks up, even _without_ a microphone.

And yet, the contrast intrigues her.  She’s studied him covertly from time to time, wondering what possessed him to ask Owens on a date at all.  None of the crew on this ship lack intelligence – they’re all at the top of their fields, or they wouldn’t be here – but why Julie?  She’s hardly his type.

Impulse?  _Malcolm Reed – impulsive?_

Opportunity?  _Well, that’s possible.  But surely he’s had better opportunities than that?_

Loneliness?  _Give me a break.  The man was born with walls._

Invitation?  _It wasn’t like Julie wasn’t drooling at him.  But what happened to the ‘anti-frat’ regulations?_

Hurt?  _Oh, come on.  It’s not like we’re best friends or anything._

Frustration?  _Did I put the idea in his head?_

Her inward discussion pauses, as always, and she shifts slightly in her chair.  Well, she can’t claim any lack of fellow-feeling in that department.  She always knew that five years was going to be a long time, but there are nights when it feels like five centuries, and, well... 

…You can’t beat the real thing.

Maybe Julie's thinking along the same lines.  And at Movie Night, uniform's strictly optional.  Maybe she's hoping the gray shirt will be in evidence.

This morning Hoshi had found herself contemplating the center zip of Malcolm’s coverall.  It was properly pulled up into place as always, the black undershirt buttoned as per regulations.  If the gray shirt’s too much to hope for, will the buttons be undone?

She catches herself up with a mental shake of disgust.  Envying Julie Owens?  Hoshi Sato, you seriously need to get a life.

Well.  Close.

There’s sure going to be a betting pool running on this one.  _What did you score him, Julie?_

Stamina, he’ll have that for sure.  His _weapons proficiency_ will be the subject of enormous interest.  Either he doesn’t know or doesn’t care.

She wonders which.  She’d thought him more fastidious than that, but maybe there are more sides to Malcolm Reed than she’s imagined.

* * *

She wasn’t going to go, but why should she miss the movie? 

She arrives early, and stares steadfastly at the screen, even before there’s anything on it.

The stir tells her he’s arrived.  A little sigh of partially satisfied curiosity.  She learns from the excited buzz  afterwards that his face was still and composed when he appeared, giving no sign that he was aware of the attention.  Julie was flushed and inclined to giggle.

They sit on the back row.  It seems that Malcolm is bored by the lack of explosions in the film.  He whispers something in his companion’s ear, and they leave early.

Hoshi watches the film, and tries not to think of anything at all.

* * *

 She has problems sleeping that night.

 Maybe it’s anger, maybe it’s envy, maybe it’s just … well, whatever.

 Her cabin’s too hot, and her skin feels as though if anyone touched it, it would give off sparks.

Maybe a drink would help.  Alcohol would be nice, but she used up the last of her stash a couple of weeks ago, and chocolate just won’t cut it.  Chocolate’s for when you’re miserable, not when you’re … well, it just won’t cut it, right?

Right.  Milk.  Or something.  Just don’t let there be anybody about, okay?  She doesn’t want to hear another goddamn word about Lieutenant Reed and his Amazing Performing Torpedo.  Or his amazing performing anything, come to that.

 And the film was crap, too.

 She leaves the cabin.  The corridors, thankfully, are quiet.

 Not quite deserted, though.  A few turns down she hears soft footsteps approaching the next junction.  She braces herself, prepared to hurl a few choice epithets in Ancient Klingon.  Nothing like Ancient Klingon for getting your feelings off your chest when you need to.

Well, so maybe it’ll be the captain, taking Porthos for his late-night constitutional.  Serve the idiot right, the both of them should have been in bed hours ago.  Follow the example of a couple of other people round here, though maybe getting more rest than some.

She turns the corner, ready to repel would-be gossips.

Well, yeah, wouldn’t you know who it’d be.  _Of all the people in all the corridors in all the world, I get to bump into Casanova in person_.  Gray shirt and all, though his hair’s less rumpled than she’d’ve expected.  Up close, his expression does unseemly things to her body.  His mouth is disconcertingly sexy.  She tries not to look at it.

“Oh, she’s kicked you out already?”  She folds her arms and lifts her chin.  She expects him to snap her to order, and is taken aback when he laughs.

“She kicked me out some time ago, actually.  Severe case of ‘failure to behave like an officer and a gentleman’.”  He leans against the wall, and there’s a wicked gleam in those storm-gray eyes.  “I’m the ship’s tactical officer.  I had to come up with something.”

Hoshi blinks at him.  _Don’t ask_ , her sensible self screams.

Her non-sensible self can smell his aftershave, and electricity prickles along her body.

“So what did you say to upset her that much?”

He pushes off the wall and comes closer.

If she was sensible she’d back away, but she isn’t and she doesn’t.

His mouth is now only inches from hers.  She’s not sure how it got there, but she doesn’t want it to go away.

“I said I really wanted to fuck someone else,” he breathes.


	5. Chapter 5

‘Honesty is the best policy’.

So he’s always heard, and in this case it’s paid off splendidly.  It’s done so a little earlier than he’d expected, but he isn’t going to complain – not when the zip of Hoshi’s tracksuit top is between his teeth, and he’s sliding it downwards.

The water is pattering in the shower tray behind her and he has plans for both of them in there.  She’s still angry, at him and at herself, but that’s not going to stop either of them from getting what they want.  Her kisses when they got through the door were savage, his hardly less so.  He plundered her mouth as she stripped off his shirt, her nails raking claw marks down his back; they’re stinging, but he hardly feels them.

A jerk of his jaw, and the top falls free.  Her bare breasts are perfectly formed, the nipples hard with desire.  He pushes her against the Plexiglas as her knees buckle.  He’s not gentle, she doesn’t want gentleness; and she doesn’t want a slow seduction either, any more than he does.

He drops to his knees, dragging her tracksuit bottoms down.  She’s naked, and she tastes wonderful.  She caterwauls, her fingers twisting in his hair as she thrusts against him.  His fingers slip inward, searching, knowledgeable, while his tongue pleasures her.

 _“Oh God – oh –!”_ She’s arching against the shower cubicle, suffocating her screams, caught trembling on the brink.  He slips his free hand up her taut belly and finds one nipple, and the sensation tips her over into orgasm.  He shuts his eyes and concentrates, smiling unseen into her flesh while his fingers and tongue tear one nerve apart from another.

He draws out her torment with the skill of years of practice.  His quarters are somewhat separate from the other crew, which has its advantages; he can make her gasp and moan and whimper, and he does, placing every fresh assault with the clinical precision you’d expect from a weapons officer at the top of his game.  His final weapon of mass destruction is charged and ready, waiting eagerly to be deployed, but there’s a time for everything.  He’s not through softening up the target yet.

Water is rationed, even for officers.  He pushes off the floor and slides up her body, licking and sucking and teasing until finally he has her mouth again and makes her taste the fluids of her own arousal.  Her hands aren’t idle, tearing at the fastenings of his jeans, and seconds later the breath hisses out through his nose as her fingers discover him and explore everything he has to offer.

Her preliminary findings appear entirely satisfactory.  She pushes at the shower door and he kicks off the jeans and follows her in, wondering briefly if he’ll ever walk in here again without seeing the undulating beauty of her long bare back curving into its perfect bottom.  He presses up against it, fisting her hair high on her head so he can bite the back of her neck while his other hand catches up a handful of gel and slicks it over her breasts and belly.

Unexpectedly, she suddenly unleashes a move he taught her long ago in self-defence classes.   His shoulders slam against the tiles, and although he could counter it easily he stays there with the water sheeting down him and Hoshi’s mouth travelling hotly down his chest and the muscular plane of his abdomen.  He thinks of her walking towards him across the Bridge clad only in his open shirt; there’s a primitive masculine triumph in seeing a lovely woman in your discarded shirt, the shape of her breasts delineated by the material, and teasing, delectable glimpses of her sex exposed to your gaze as she moves....

He utters something between a gasp and a groan, his visual of what he could do to her in the captain’s chair suddenly dangerously vivid in combination with her mouth, which has definitely done this before and bloody well enjoyed it; almost as much as he’s enjoying it, with the ship’s cunning linguist on her knees in front of him, and suddenly it’s far safer to think of weapons calibration tables rather than Hoshi with her legs splayed, as they will be very shortly but _not right now..._

It will soon be far too late unless he retakes control of the situation, and she grins triumphantly as he drops down to join her, knowing the movement is an admission of her skills.  More gel is pressed into service, and for a time they writhe together on the shower floor like mating eels, slippery with gel and lust, tasting each other and teasing, the sensations incredible as skin slides against skin.  More than once the door to heaven beckons, and once he even leans forward just a little, listening to her mewl, but _not right now_ , and he pulls back again.  Her fists are hard on his chest; she calls him a bastard, though his parents were married.  Her eyelashes are spiky with water, her lips bruised and engorged.  Her breasts are beautiful in his hands.  He makes her caress her own nipples while he watches, gently stroking the tips of his fingers up her parted thighs and thinking about fucking her. 

She kneels for him, and probably knows quite well why the breath catches in his throat.  Her sex is a work of art, framed by the perfect curves of her buttocks.  He uses his mouth delicately, though the aching pressure at his groin is becoming unbearable.  He’s seen stallions covering mares, the screaming and thrusting, and the urge to start screaming and thrusting on his own account will very shortly be too great to control.

Hoshi’s fingers claw at the anti-slip flooring.  She’s howling at God, but God isn’t listening.  What she actually wants is the _coup de grace_ , and, humanitarian that he is, maybe a little mercy is finally in order.

Her cries stop short.

The water has stopped too, his ration exhausted, and for an endless moment there is nothing but hot damp silence and the tremble of her quaking body against his belly.

“Please– ”

He kisses her spine.  Her shoulder blades are exquisite, like the rest of her.  His fingertips ghost across her nipples, and the instant tremor in response is delectable.

“Lie back and think of enchiladas, Ensign,” he whispers.  Then his hands slide down and take a grip of her hips, because the real business is about to start, and he’ll make sure that no unexpected moves on her part will interfere with his expert delivery of the anticipated payload.

He isn’t sure which of them moans, but it might be him.  She’s so tight he has to push harder than anticipated, but his preparation has paid off.  She’s perfectly lubricated, and he slides into her in a long slow movement that has her body convulsing with pleasure.  For some twenty seconds he stays perfectly still, letting both of them get used to the feeling of him inside her.  The most sensitive nerve-endings in his body transmit every minute quiver as she gasps her excitement, the small urgent pushes of her pelvis betraying her craving.

There.  He’s ready.  The calculations are made and fed in.  Nothing more is wanting but the delivery and the detonation.

He begins to rock, very slowly at first, using all of his length, recreating the push and the pressure.  A series of slow, steady shockwaves into her core, building gradually.

She braces herself against the Plexiglas.  Her knuckles are white.  He visualises her breasts, with their taut nipples.

He shifts his grip just slightly, adjusting her.  The extra penetration at his next thrust fetches a whimper out of her, and it won’t be the last by any means.

Staying fully buried, he lets his weight rest partially on her back while one hand strokes and teases the front of her body.  His refusal to touch what she wants touched makes her mew again, though his finger delves into wet heat and teases there.  This time the resulting tremors are mind-blowing, so he plays a bit longer, a wicked little masturbation with her clenching vaginal walls.  Both of them enjoy it, so where’s the harm?  It’s a game he likes to play with him and a partner kneeling upright in front of a mirror.  The view, as well as the sensations, is deeply erotic.

The play has stoked his urgency.  He straightens again.  Now the strokes are shorter, harder, faster.  He grunts as each one goes home, and the sound echoes in the shower cubicle, deeper than Hoshi’s loud, rapid breathing, that starts to hitch with panic and need.  Perfectionist in this as in everything, he likes the blast to be symmetrical and synchronous.  He feels the charge lock into place, but she has to provide the detonation.

He’s tired of waiting.

The image of the stallion flashes across his mind.  He thrusts and screams.  Hoshi screams in echo, and her body convulses, impaled by pleasure.

The world explodes.  Control lost, thought lost, everything lost but the wild, primeval delight of release, surrendering utterly to the dictates of his body, which moves with brutal efficiency, caring for nothing but the achievement.  He spills inside her as she raves, and tomorrow there will be bruises on those smooth flanks but right now she cares nothing for bruises.  Tomorrow he’ll look across the Bridge at her and his face will give away nothing, but right now he’s buried in her to the hilt; tomorrow her voice will be calm and professional at the comm station, but right now he hears it crazed with sex and triumph as orgasm crashes through her belly.

They relax slowly.  Aftershocks shudder through her.  He strokes her sides, gentling her.  As Nature takes its course, he withdraws – careful now, because both of them are sensitised.

It’s a relief to subside to the shower floor.  Hoshi is still on all fours, and he draws her across him.  In Ancient Egyptian mythology, the goddess of the sky arched above the god of the earth; he’s always thought the imagery erotic.  Hoshi is the goddess of the night.  Her breasts are gorgeous.  He raises his head.  Soon she’s moaning again.

The bed will be much more comfortable.  There are hours yet, with the darkness their confessor.  She stretches like a cat, Bast, sensual and wanton; a kitten with claws, and he knows many more ways to earn her scratches.

Bed.

Hoshi.

And tomorrow can look after itself.

**Author's Note:**

> All reviews appreciated, from anyone who persevered!


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